When I tell people I've never loved,

it isn't true.

It's a lie that hid itself

between hard hugs

and pursed lips that pressed

passionate kisses to my forehead.

Linked arms and brushing thighs

melded us together.

You were sweet summer:

Black haired with wild blueberry eyes.

I can't count the tears I cried over you,

or the words upon words

that piled in the back of your Subaru

along with your hockey gear.

You were my best friend for years.


which used to pass swiftly

ripening until red enough

to take a bite.

And they'd taste bittersweet and great,

like those blueberries

that grew near the wooden gate,

where I'd sit

swinging my skinny legs as you spoke of


And I wanted.

I think those blueberries poisoned me

far more effectively

than anything Cupid could create.

But by the time I was beautiful,

it was too late.

We grew separate.

You know how it goes:

years can grow overripe

and that banana could have made good bread,

but you never professed to be a chef,

and I'm no good at baking alone.

How I hated you then

because all I wanted was that one kiss,

like the one you described to me.

The one you gave her.

With the flickering fire

and that shooting star

the one that made you believe it was meant to be.

Meant to be!?

No! No!


Because our hugs never changed,

but your kisses

grew strange

and I couldn't listen

when you spoke of wanting



I let you go.

You didn't understand,

and I couldn't explain.

There's no way to describe such subtle pain

and nothing to gain from saying I love you.

Our friendship was molding anyway.

So even now when they ask me

have I ever been in love?

I lie.

They can't tell.

I still live for summer time,

I just can't stomach blueberries very well.